Got Any Change Luv . . . ?

He would be there every morning

Sitting under the railway bridge

Alone on the paving stones

Young, small, dark hair, very slight,

Faded ragged clothes . . .

Got any change luv . . . ?

Every day the same chorus, the same mantra.

Always on my way to work,

Passing him by.

There came a time when I gathered coins, silver, copper,

Keeping it in my pocket, just for him.

He sitting on the ground there,

Just avoiding that section of the bridge that always leaked water,

Cold unforgiving moisture,

Got any change luv . . . ?

Every day.

 

One day he told me his story.

He was only young

Never had a home

Never had a chance,

No one had chosen him in the children's salesroom of adoption.

He didn't appeal to anyone.

Then came the day at seventeen he was asked to leave the home, the institution,

Make way for others, he was told.

Got any change luv . . . ?

 

Then that morning,

Quite near Christmas,

He sat crossed legged on the ground,

Head bowed down,

Not a sound,

Not a glance or an imploring look,

Finished, given up,

Destroyed.

The cold,

The constant drip of the water from the bridge,

Like torture,

Got any change luv  . . . ?

The silent mantra stilled.